Notes: Holy shit, I am just the worst. Sorry for keeping you all waiting. Life gets in the way of fanfiction sometimes, y'all. Then again, so does World of Warcraft and crocheting. Trigger warning: There are not one but two rape scenes in this chapter.
There were no warning signs this time. The fog that usually filled the room, the loud booming sounds outside her door, the quick sinking feeling of dread that filled her – none of them. She was watching TV, and then she was sprawled on her bed, flat on her back, her arms straight out at right angles, palms up and unable to move.
It came into view and Olivia could feel her stomach heaving, bile rising in her throat, a terrible taste, the smell of sulfur and fire in her nostrils, and something else, pungent, sweet-smelling in the way that rot often smelled. Here was the fog, but though she couldn't see a solid form in it, she could feel it. Pressing against her. It whispered into her ear, something she couldn't parse but its tone was unmistakable. She'd heard that same sadism and pleasure a thousand other times, every psycho she slapped cuffs on.
She was naked, and couldn't remember if she'd been wearing clothes before but she felt like she would have remembered being naked. She pushed and pulled, willing her arms to move, to summon every ounce of strength she could and get this monster off of her, but the struggle wasn't there. Not like pulling against something very heavy, but like trying to move someone else's limbs through sheer force of will. There was no connection. She couldn't.
She couldn't. Even a scream wouldn't leave her lips.
The fog, she realized, was smoke.
It disappeared, dissipating slowly, and for a moment she thought that maybe she had escaped once more. Until she felt it again, pressing against her, substance but no form. And then pain blossomed across her body, inside and out. Splintering her open and engulfing her simultaneously. White-hot sparks against her eyes. Moving and squirming, burning and wet just under her skin, worms and rot eating through her. Something above her again, pressing her down, down, or something pulling her from underneath. Wrapped all around her, suffocating her.
She felt tears, very real and very hot, on her face. She was still, unmoving, on her couch. Nothing else except cheerful voices on TV.
She could move now. But she couldn't.
He smelled her before he even felt her weight on top of him. Dirt and smoke. The faint scent of blood. She smelled like hell. It terrified him – for a minute he thought he was back there, a fear that had never really left him – and he jolted awake. She gave him no time to react before her lips were on his, and the smell of sulfur and rot seemed to ooze off of her. Heat from her body seeped into him, making him feel feverish and delirious.
The little light that was in the room reflected in the blue of her eyes and made her seem almost beautiful, calmed him in a way that anesthetics would, pushing him down and making him dizzy. But he could still feel. He tried to fight the heat and arousal but found that he felt disconnected from his body, couldn't move at all. Just like before, only instead of the feeling of being restrained he felt like he'd been forced out, so that his body was just meat and sweat and nerves.
He was hard, and she held his cock, guided him inside her. The heat became more intense and he was sure this was going to kill him, that he was going to burn and burn and burn. He came inside her and she kept moving her hips, kept drawing spasms out of him, her fingers clawing at his skin. He felt raw, weak. Exhausted, like it had been days since he'd slept.
She looked sated, her eyelids drooping. She leaned down to kiss him again, his lips burning under hers. He closed his eyes, and suddenly the heat drained away from him, the weight was lifted. He heard Sam's voice, panicked and shouting for him to wake up.
He was still exhausted, his muscles aching and lax. He opened his eyes, struggled to look at Sam while he croaked, "Call Olivia." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "Make sure she's okay."
His eyes drifted shut again while Sam dialed Olivia's number. It was hard to focus on what Sam was saying, even harder to get anything meaningful from the bits and pieces that he did hear.
He must have been dreaming again, because Castiel was with him but Sam didn't seem to notice. His words became more and more muddled until they didn't sound like words anymore, only meaningless sounds.
"You were attacked," Cas said, leaning down by Dean's bed, looking over him. His eyebrows furrowed, and Dean could tell that Cas was looking for something beneath the surface, something he and Sam might never even be able to find. "Asmodai," he said simply before stepping back.
"What. Did he leave his fucking … his card or some shit?" Dean asked. Even in his half-asleep state, his sentences came in fragments. It was difficult even to draw breath.
"Sometimes he torments his victims just for the sake of it. He's taken something from you." Cas put the palm of his hand to Dean's forehead, and it eased the aching in Dean's muscles, made the fatigue bearable.
"What the hell does that mean? What did he take?"
"He's going to use your semen to impregnate a woman."
Dean needed a moment to come up with a response. "What, he can't get it up anymore?"
"I believe this has always been his method."
"Fuck. The Megan Fox lookalike demon bitch who's really a prince of hell is harvesting my precious bodily fluids," Dean muttered, trying to ignore his escalating distress. He tried to rouse from the dream but Cas said sharply, "No. You need to rest."
"Fuck that. I gotta kill Megan Fox before she breeds an army of half-demon, half-Winchester, half-rape-victim babies."
"You obviously don't realize just how close to death you were, Dean."
"Yeah, well. I've been worse."
"And you've been better. You need to rest. You won't wake up from this sleep until you're fully healed."
"So I'm supposed to leave Sam to deal with this alone?"
"I will help Sam. Rest." With that, Cas put his fingers to Dean's forehead, and that was the end of their argument.